Author's Note:
Just a stream-of-consciousness ficlet idea that I wanted to play
with. Since we all know Haruka likes shiny things… X3

Warnings: HaruKan
lime! :D

XXX

Treasure

XXX

He is silver and
ivory and ruby.

He is silver and
ivory and ruby: trembling strands of precious metal, quivering
columns of melting marble, glazed gemstones that glow with an inner
fire. But this is not a cold fire, this is not a frozen flame: these
rubies ooze a heat that is distant and hazy but still somehow alert
and aware and full of need. The need burns him—he can feel
it in his heart, in his loins, all around him in this pale-paper box:
this room that conceals the other's jewel-like beauty from the rest
of the unworthy world, hiding him like a treasure in a chest. His
treasure, trapped in his chest: this room, full of mirrors and
marbles and glittering crystals, all of which have been forgotten in
the heat (oh, such heat!) of the moment.

None of them are
important now.

Yes. Unimportant.
The unresponsive trinkets that he has horded for so long seem trivial
and ugly in contrast; he would no longer care if they broke, or
shattered, or crumbled into dust. They could never compare to this
treasure, this enigma, this man he calls master, who willingly
submitted with a touch and a word. In that moment, the air grew
thick, and the silence became heavy, and then some unseen thread
snapped; now he is the master, and he commands
with a name— Kantarou, Kantarou, Kantarou— and the other
writhes and pants and moans with wonton desire, bucking and pleading
as his pinking flesh is kissed by a thousand million tiny diamonds.

Off comes the
hakama—soft as skin, red as blood; off slips the kimono, like a
sheet or a veil. And he is unwrapped and exposed, and oh, so
willing; more threads snap, the hush turns electric, and neither man
can breathe…

The treasure gasps
(back arching, eyes wide, mouth open in alluring surprise) and the
intensity of it all is too much for him. A husky cry; a name
whispered in reverence. He collapses: spent, sated, and perfectly
still—a beautiful doll on the rush-mat floor, basking in the golden
light of the summer sunset.

His breathing evens.
His gaze is liquid, and his lips are glossy. His slick chest raises,
lowers, glistens; raises, lowers, glistens.

In the wake of it
all, Kantarou glitters.

And Haruka has never
seen anything so beautiful, or loved anyone so much.

XXX

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